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40 better appreciated certain tales in this collection that inevitably recalled him. Still, the whole is pleasant enough. I wish I could say also that I liked the illustrations, but, with exceptions, these seemed to me both ugle and pretentious. The best exception was one of the old stork, a delightful piece of colour for the sake of which I can almost forget some of the others.

Miss Author:Sarah Macnaughtan always writes very chamingly and with plenty of humour, and in dedicating A Green Englishman to "My Canadian friends" she must, I think, be too unconscious of her powers, for this collection of stories is far from being a valuable endorsement of the flowery praises of the emigration bureaux. Very little hope is held out to the young man of good family who is a gentleman and something of a sportsman, and proposes to pick up gold on the pavements or the prairies of the WEst. I do not mean that the writer is ungenerous either to the Dominion or to its people, but she takes no pains to conceal the terror that lives with the beauty of its vast spaces, and she does not represent the struggle to "make good" as altogether a lovely thing. Perhaps the most ambitious of these sketches, certainly the one which confirms most nearly to the "short story" model, describes the fate of a clergyman's daughter who pays a visit to Macredie, "somewhere on the C. P. R. line," and marries a farmer and land-speculator, chiefly because this is her last chance of marrying at all. The horror of the silence and the snow, when her husband leaves her to face a Canadian winter alone, because he has business in England, eventually drives her mad; and though most of the stories are in a lighter vein than this, and there is plenty of the humorous sentiment in which Miss excels, the moral that I draw from the book as a whole is, "Visit Canada by all means, but, unless you are a Scotchman of the very doggedest type, don't stay there."

The hiding of lights under bushels may be all very well in private life, but is misplaced in the book-publishing business. I thoroughly disapprove of the title and the outside cover of the Hon. Mrs. 's latest collection of leisurely essays, Joking Apart. The one suggests a heart-to-heart talk on the things that matter or else an outburst of boisterous farce, while the other is merely dismal The two together are enough to put the public off a really good thing. Mrs. treats of the domestic and social side of feminine life in that peculiar vein of humour which is neither joking nor yet joking apart; her writing reminds me of those least-to-be-forgotten evenings of my life when I have been lucky enough to listen for hours to a real pucker conversationalist in the best of spirits and at the top of his form. The words that passed are forgotten; it is even difficult to remember what all the talk was about; but the recollection remains of having heard the truth of things for once, neither laughed at nor wept over, but very brightly revealed. Of twenty excellent chapters I much prefer the one about woman's sphere in electioneering; as to the thumb-nail illustrations in the margin, they show bad draughtsmanship, but some are delightfully apt.

Mr. Author:Lincoln Colcord, writer of short stories of the sea, republished under title The Game of Life and Death, has taken no pains to conceal his admirable model. There surely never was, outside conscious parody, so conspicuously derivative a method of handling similar types and subjects. It was a bold thing to do. He has not 's fastidious sense of words, nor his masterly suggestion of atmosphere, so much more felt than actually expressed, nor his patient sure unravelling of motives; and in "The Voice of the Dead" he commits a piece of shocking bad Wardour Street, of which by no conceivable lapse could his master have been guilty. But there is a whiff of the sea in his work; his types, if cruder, have life, and he often contrives some ingenious turn in the situation which gives the story interest. The Game of Life and Death—which ends in a hand of poker played between Chinese merchants and pirates, with two lives and much money and gear for stake—is a good yarn, though it leans on the inartistic unlikelihood of a royal capping a straight flush—which is piling it on too thick. The tale of "The Moths" that haunted a man who took them for the souls of wronged women provides a sufficient thrill. "De Long" is just the kind of story of the crooked cosmopolitan ship-chandler that would write, indeed has written. Nichols, the narrator of this and others, is made after the model of his reflective skippers. And here is challenge gets too near for Mr. 's chances. Still the yarns go well with a seasoned pipe; and that is no mean recommendation.

The Honourable Percival may at least claim to have established a record in one respect. I think I never met a full-sized novel with a more slender plot. The Honourable Percival Hascombe, on a pleasure tour in the Pacific, met Miss Roverta Boynton, and fell in love with her. This, I give you my word, is all there is of it. But, if you think that so slight a thread will be insufficient to hold your interest, you reckon without the cunning of Author:Alice Hegan Rice, who has spun it. There are those of us who worship Mrs. Wings of the Cabbage Patch. There are also those who don't. But while regretfully classing myself among the benighted to whom this Best Seller appealed in vain, I hasten to add that I have nothing but gratitude for The Honourable Percival. This record of a shipboard romance is done with the dantiest art, delicate, tender, humorous, and not (as is the fault with so many American romances) oversweetened. The development of Percival from a priggish misanthrope to a man and a lover is beautifully told. Also a great part of the charm of the tale lies in its setting, a series of cinemascopic views of the ports touched at by the S. S. Saluria, so vividly portrayed that you will close the book with quite the feeling of the returned traveller. One small but poignant surprise the ending has in store, which I will not spoil by anticipation.

